


To Live With It

by reveling_in_mayhem



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, First Kiss, M/M, Unresolved Ending, post trf
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-19
Updated: 2019-11-19
Packaged: 2021-02-13 09:30:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21492106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reveling_in_mayhem/pseuds/reveling_in_mayhem
Summary: After his return to London, Sherlock comes face to face with the consequences of his actions.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson
Comments: 5
Kudos: 27
Collections: Holmestice Exchange - Winter 2019





	To Live With It

**Author's Note:**

  * For [0archangel0](https://archiveofourown.org/users/0archangel0/gifts).
  * Translation into Русский available: [Нам придется жить с этим](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23541889) by [Everything_Is_Blue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Everything_Is_Blue/pseuds/Everything_Is_Blue)

It was an exhalation. A quiet breath. The ability of speech produced through the air pulled from lungs, pushed out past vibrating vocal cords, then words formed through the manipulations of the tongue, teeth, nose. Simple biology, really. Respiration, phonation, and articulation. 

“I love you.”

Sherlock felt it as his breath left his lungs in a rush. His chest felt tight, his head both screaming and utterly silent. Just those words, ushered forth so simply. So quietly said that it would be easy to believe they were imaginary. So clearly meant in the way that went beyond friendship. 

This was not at all what he had been expecting when he had opened the door to the flat and saw John standing on the other side of the door. He had knocked, like he was asking permission to enter. Upon reflection, this made sense. John no longer lived at Baker Street. He had moved out after Sherlock’s fall from St. Bart’s roof. Mrs. Hudson had told him that about a month after his supposed funeral she had gone up with a tray of tea and John was simply gone. He had left a note, thanking her for everything she had done, and that was it. 

After the way the previous night had gone, he had not expected to see John any time soon. He had come home after the restaurant, and the three following locales they were kicked out of, climbed the stairs up to 221b, and stood in front of the mirror in the bathroom for what felt like hours. He had gingerly cleaned the blood from his nose and thought about all the things John had said, what Mary had said, and what he himself did not manage to say. John had been so angry with him. He knew John had a right to be. Mary had said she would talk to him, and perhaps she had. This John didn’t seem angry, though. This John just said he loved him. 

He opened his mouth, but no words of his own came forth. His thoughts were spinning, and he was unable to stop them long enough to pick one, to just stop one thought in the maelstrom going through his mind. 

John’s lips quirked slightly up, a hint of a smile, before falling back into a line. 

“I know. I have trouble with this kind of thing. Talking about my emotions. Thing is, I’ve had plenty of practice saying those three words to you, now. Over two years of practice. I’ve said it nearly every day to a black stone with your name on it.”

John stood tall, shoulders squared, arms hanging down his side, his hands surprisingly open and relaxed. He was standing beside his chair. It didn’t matter that neither of them had lived there in years. It would always be John’s chair. The faded red upholstery, the Union Jack pillow tucked into the back, the tea stain on the left arm rest from that time Sherlock had accidentally caused a small explosion in the kitchen during a slight miscalculation when testing a hypothesis. John had startled while holding a mug of tea and it had fallen from his hand, the rich amber liquid spilling freely and staining both the armrest and a bit of the worn down Persian rug. John had tried to clean it, but was unsuccessful. 

“But I can’t do this.”

A blink. The words slowly making their way through the ear canal, hitting the eardrum and causing it to vibrate with the sound, those vibrations moving through the ossicles to the cochlea and the fluid within to move. The hair cells to bend. Neural signals picked up by the auditory nerve and fired off to the brain to be interpreted as sound. The brain giving those vibrations of sound meaning. Speech finally returns. 

“Can’t do what?”

“This, Sherlock. I can’t just come back. I can’t do it.”

“John Watson can’t do something? That’s not the John Watson I know.”

A huff of breath. A slight shake of the head. A tightening of hands into fists before being forcibly relaxed.

“I’m not the John Watson you knew.”

“What happened to him?”

Deep ocean eyes locked onto sea glass eyes. Sherlock could feel the sand shifting under his feet as he looked into those eyes. The undertow pulling him out into the depths of that ocean. 

“He watched the man he loves step off a roof.” 

The riptide pulled him under the waves. His head was under the waves that beat relentlessly against him. He was suffocating. His lungs were on fire as they struggled for air. He forced himself to breathe in, the sudden rush of oxygen burning as his chest expanded with it.

“Loves?” Not loved. Loves. He still loves. A warmth that felt cruelly like hope flared through his chest and spiraled out through his limbs.

“I knew I loved you, then,” John said, not acknowledging Sherlock’s question. He had turned his eyes away and was staring down at his shoes. His left hand was up at his mouth, index finger tracing his bottom lip in thought as his right hand was shoved into a trouser pocket.

“Well, if I’m being honest, I knew I loved you since that damn pool,” he huffs out quietly.

Again the current takes him under and he is unable to breathe. Unable to speak. 

“I believed in you. I still do. I remember what you told me. That you did it to save me. To save Greg and Mrs. Hudson. I believe that. I believe you did what you had to do. I wish you would have believed in me. That you could have told me what was going on. But you left me in the dark. You left me with nothing but the image of you falling.”

His voice got lower as he stepped closer to stand in front of Sherlock. He reached out and took one of Sherlock’s hands and Sherlock felt electricity course through his body through the touch. He watched and felt as John turned his hand over, two fingers expertly resting along his wrist, taking his pulse with the surety of the doctor he was. Sherlock knew it was elevated. He felt the rush of blood pumping hotly through his veins, his heart was thumping so hard through his thin chest he knew it was only a matter of time before it exploded. Then John placed his other hand on his chest over that wildly beating organ. 

“Now here you are. Flesh and blood and alive.” 

John looked up, his eyes locking onto Sherlock’s again. 

“Yes.” 

John gave a small, sad smile. Just a gentle lifting of the corners of his lips. Sherlock felt the burn of tears behind his eyes and let them close. He felt one tear gather and escape the corner of his eye. Felt it leave a wet trail down his cheek. John’s hand let go of his wrist and cupped Sherlock’s cheek, his thumb gently wiping away the evidence of the salty tear before tracing a sharp cheekbone. 

He wasn’t surprised when he felt the subtle pressure of lips against his. That was all. Soft, warm, gentle lips pressed against his own. Not demanding or insistent. It was comfortable, like it had happened all their lives. Sherlock returned the kiss, lips tenderly caressing.

It was subdued.

It tasted of tea and tears.

It felt more like a goodbye than a first kiss.

When it ended, Sherlock opened his eyes and looked down at John. He saw the evidence of the tears that he had tasted during their kiss in the shimmer of his blue eyes and the drying tracks down his cheeks.

He watched as John took a deep, shaky breath. Felt his arms fall away from where they had curled around him during their kiss and step out of the circle of Sherlock’s arms around him.

“You did what you did. And now we have to live with it. You ripped me to pieces, Sherlock. I will always love you, and I will always miss you.”

Sherlock watched as John straightened his back, gave a slight nod, then turn and walk out the door of the flat. He walked out without saying another word. The soft thump of feet as they traveled down seventeen stairs. The distant sounds of traffic amplifying as the door at the bottom was opened, then quieted again as it was pulled closed. The click of the door sharp in its finality.

The physical pain of still healing lash marks on his back were nothing in the face of the emptiness he sensed closing in around him. The crushing weight of a future without an unsuspecting doctor in boring jumpers and sensible shoes pressed down upon him. The waves crashed over his head a final time, dragging him under, and he knew he would not be able to rise to the surface.

He called after the man he knew was no longer there.

Softly. Quietly. Brokenly.

“John.”

An exhalation. A breath. A prayer.

A cry of anguish.

Respiration, phonation, and articulation.

**Author's Note:**

> A HUGE thank you to my beta, middleearthmama, for her help!


End file.
